Precisely
by redperplexion
Summary: August sixth. Three thirteen P.M. exactly - not one second later or earlier, because this event deserves all of the time and care in the world. But he can't give it to him, and that is what saddens him the most.


August sixth.

Three thirteen P.M. exactly - not one second later or earlier, because this event deserves all of the time and care in the world.

But he can't give it to him, and that is what saddens him the most.

August sixth, nineteen ninety-nine, three twelve in the afternoon, the nation of North Italy walks through a field of tall grass with two roses in hand. They are beautiful roses, white petals curved elegantly, long stems trimmed. He walks a little faster, seeing as there were only seventeen seconds left until it was three thirteen.

Italy reaches the top and pauses for just a few moments to gaze, unblinkingly, at the marble tombstone, the smooth surface and text dulled by centuries of wear by the weather. He remembers what it says clearly, however. He has it memorized, because what kind of uncaring person would he be if he didn't?

So he sits down, at exactly three thirteen P.M. and zero seconds, and puts a single rose on the earth in front of the tombstone. Italy is quiet for a while.

The first time he came, he cried and pounded his weak fists on the marble, sobbing and screaming to the heavens above for making him suffer through this.

The next he cried again, again, and again, lamenting his sorrows each time.

It was around a little after the one hundredth time that Italy stopped crying every time he came. The tears just left him. He had no more tears in him, and so Italy settled for sitting down in silence for an hour or so. He didn't mind the weather. He barely took notice of whatever it was, anyway.

He tried talking around ten turns after that. Italy had talked and talked about troubles, the wars, how his brother was still as grumpy as ever, and how he wished that he were still there to see the patch of beautiful daises that had sprung up behind his house. _They were very pretty,_ Italy had said with the ghost of a smile on his lips and shining amber eyes. _ I think you would've liked them._

Today, which Italy remember was August sixth, nineteen ninety-nine, was a white-washed day. The sky was like an empty canvas, Italy thought. It looks ready to be painted on.

If only he had paints, maybe he would've. Tried to, anyway.

First, Italy asks him how he is. He brushes away some of the dirt that has collected on the tombstone so it is clean.

Next, Italy tells him about how he absolutely loves the tomatoes that Spain had helped him and Romano grow. They were very big, red, and delicious, Italy added after a while.

Then, Italy tells him about things he enjoys in his everyday life. The new set of oil paints he got last week, how Japan and Hungary always seemed to hang around when he and Germany were together, how Prussia was becoming more and more lively, if that was even possible, and the world meetings were even more chaotic than usual.

After the small things, Italy lets out all of the words he has never been able speak around all of the other countries. He talks about how he's so, so happy about the end of the second Great War - even if that was several years ago - and how he loves to spend time with him up on this hill.

Italy stops for a moment, pausing to look at the landscape with its shallow dips and curves and the little grove of trees way off to the left. The shadows cast by the leaves were dark and stood out boldly in the green-yellow surrounding. A bird of some sort circles in the sky above, then flies up, up, and away and disappears into the white sky.

And then Italy folds his hands tightly around the white rose in his hands, falls into complete silence and lets the air around him envelope him in peace. He does not cry as he stares at the tombstone.

Italy _does not_ and _will not_ let himself shed any more tears, because he really has cried his fair share of sorrow already.

Then Italy talks a little more about what he did earlier today. After a while he's done, not with the things that he has to tell him, but the amount that he can speak without crumbling his brittle wall against breaking down. He lifts the rose to his face, gently touches it with the tip of his nose, and drinks in the faint but sweet smell.

Then he sets the rose down, smiles slightly, and stands up. Italy looks up. The sky is still a blank canvas. He places his hands gently on the tombstone, lost in thought for a moment, and for yet another time he wishes that there was a body to go with the grave.

North Italy turns and walks back to the direction where he came from, a gentle breeze shifting its fingers through his hair and tugging at his shirt (He didn't wear his uniform, because it would've reminded him of war, and war was the reason that the grave was there in the first place, and it was why he spent decades crying his very heart out with longing and sorrow).

He'd be back the next August sixth, exactly on three thirteen P.M.

* * *

**A/N:** Lock me up for days without school and you get this. Haha. I need social activity. Badly. I tried a different style, instead of "ed" I used "s".

Reviews (constructive criticism would be loved) and favorites would make my day!


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